


bruises

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme on lj. Prompt by soavantgarde: "You wouldn't guess by the slow sweet way they touch each other's bodies in bed that they were responsible for creating the very same bruises they caress."</p>
            </blockquote>





	bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dayinthelife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/gifts).



The air is soft with spring and the gloaming is upon them by the time they undress together after their sword practice, as is their custom now. They move slowly, tired and stiff after their fierce, evenly matched combat. Before, when both were full of fury and fear and doubt their bloodied battle lust led to angry kisses and urgent, desperate acts which tore their clothes and didn’t give time for either to think, only that they must have the other now, right now. Today, those feelings are as deep and as powerful but simmered down to something more intense, more potent. They know they do not need to rush for their fears of each other and themselves have proved false and false again.

As Brienne helps Jaime with the stiff buckles of his boiled leather jacket, he stands quietly, his hand brushing away her tousled hair from her eyes. He breathes her in; the sweat in her damp hair and the mud on her clothes and the smell of the outdoors. The jacket loosens and he shrugs it off. She gazes at him for a moment, hands resting on his chest, another layer of linen under her touch still. Then she smiles quietly and turns, to strip off her own doublet. Jaime knows that she won’t look at him as she does so, she never has done. A second later, naked from the waist upwards, she reaches for the cloth in a steaming bowl of water. Jaime steps forward and pulls her arm away.

“Sit,” he directs her to a small daybed in front of the fire. “It’s my turn. And get those breeches off.”

Blue eyes flash at him, but she does what she’s told. A tired sigh escapes her as she lies, sinking down into the cushions, closing her eyes. Jaime kneels down, back towards the flames. He is warm enough already and his cock stirs at the sight of her, as he watches her body shift and stretch. Leaning over her, he finds her newest bruise across her ribs. He gave it to her only an hour ago, a feint and a parry and then a harsh swipe at her. He remembered her grunt at she took the blow, a step back and his attack that took advantage of her breathlessness. The skin is blue and purple, sore along a line that ends under her left breast. There is an ember of guilt left in him, that he did this to her. But he knows she would hate him if he didn’t put his all into their fights. She told him that from their first night, when he had hissed and growled at her injuries. He kisses the bruise, as gently as he can manage, his lips barely brushing the skin. He senses her gasp.

“Gods, Jaime, it hurts—“

His mouth rests on the bruise, the fine nerves unable to feel the grinding of bones. “It’s bad, but nothing’s broken.”

“Good.”

“Not good. You need to wear plate.” He looks up at her just in time to see her roll her eyes.

“I don’t need to.”

He sighs at her stubbornness. “See how you feel in the morning. I’ll wear it too, if that helps. I know you wouldn’t want to give me an advantage.” She makes a face at him but nods in surrender.

He passes the cloth over her ribs, wiping away the salty sweat he tasted. He likes to kiss her before he washes the dirt away, just as he likes to smell her hair after a fight rather than after her bath. He feels her long fingers in his hair, but he won’t be distracted. He moves upwards, kissing the gentle mounds of her breasts, hand and cloth following.

She has waited patiently enough for his mouth on hers, but now she cannot wait anymore. A hand under his chin pulls him up to her and she feels him smile before he kisses her.

“You tease me,” she says after she has tasted him. The faint trace of wine, drunk thirstily at the end of their sparring, remains.

“I’m looking after you, wench. Making amends.” He keeps a straight face, but as always, his eyes, crinkled at the edges, give him away. Gives him away to her at least.

“Best get on with it then.”

He laughs properly then. “Be careful wench, you have no sword to defend you now.” Before she can think up a retort, he presses his lips to hers and then wrenches away to look for more of his marks on her.

There are scrapes on her arms and hands and he tenderly cleans them, kissing each of her knuckles in turn. He spots a blooming welt on her hip, where the handle of his sword caught her. Her scent is different here, her thick blonde bush gives off a mustiness that makes his cock harden further. He mouths her skin, over the injury and onto her inner thigh. It is as pale and new as the first time he found it, all that time ago. He cannot help drawing a finger through her wetness. She groans softly, as he knew she would.

“Gods, Brienne—“ he drawls out, languorously, enjoying her reaction when he adds another finger, and a thumb that rubs lazily over her nub.

She bites her lip as she tries to resist, but her breaths are shortening and she is struggling to keep her gaze on him.  “Jaime, you shouldn’t always do this,” she pants, sounding unconvinced.

He stills his hand, but does not move it away. “No?” he asks her, wickedly. “Why not?”

“Because you always let me go first, it’s not fair for you—“ She instinctively cants her hips towards his touch. “Gods… I should be looking after you, you must be hurting—“

He snorts at her reason. Her concern is touching, it always is, but infuriating at times. “Afterwards, wench,” he growls. He presses harder and she shivers, pulling him up to her so that he lies next to her. She can feel his hardness through his breeches and she smiles at him. Her hand is on his cheek, the other round his back, grasping the linen shirt in a tight grip. He watches her face as his thumb and fingers undo her. Her eyes are wide, almost unbelieving but with a touch of thrill at what is to come.

She kisses him fervently. “Promise me. Promise me, you’ll let me take your shirt off and your trousers and wash away—” she gasps. “I want to—“ Her words turn to a barely stifled moan as she tenses and stiffens under him.

“I promise, wench. Gods, I promise.” He buries his head in the crook of her neck, and inhales deeply. 

**Author's Note:**

> reviews make the world go around :)


End file.
